Chapter 37

Thirty-Seven: The Scholar Also Kills (Requesting Follows and Votes)

Ouyang Rong closed his eyes in the dark, but could not sleep.

The more he thought, the more something felt off.

Why had his merit suddenly surged in the middle of the night? He hadn’t done anything—just given a few casual orders.

Could it be that sending Banxi back, refusing her hint to share his bed, had saved her? Or perhaps… giving cakes to Old Cui and the clerks, letting them rest, had saved them?

Then does that mean the eastern warehouse has changed?

Ouyang Rong immediately rolled off the table and rushed toward the door.

As he ran toward the eastern warehouse, he spotted a shadow darting across its roof; then he saw the slender figure of his junior sister burst from the doorway, leaping nimbly onto the roof, drawing her bow beneath the moon, and chasing after the shadow. Below, chaos erupted at the warehouse entrance.

Ouyang Rong had a short sword borrowed from his junior sister slung at his waist, gripping the hilt warily, and hurried forward. From the soldiers and clerks he met, he learned the details—and exhaled in relief. But when he heard Old Cui was still inside the eastern warehouse working, worry returned. He exchanged no pleasantries with Qin Heng outside, and walked straight in…

What he saw left him silent.

“What are you doing?”

The old master, who had been working quietly since earlier, swayed.

Ouyang Rong didn’t turn, but raised a hand to block Qin Heng and the soldiers behind him.

He said firmly: “Put down the lamp.”

Old Cui nodded silently, released his grip, and the lamp fell onto the pile of account books drenched in strange liquid.

In an instant, a volcano erupted from the table.

The liquid spread along the table’s edge and engulfed the old man—more flammable than oil, flames racing fast. Had Ouyang Rong not lunged forward and shoved Old Cui away instantly, the old man would have been swallowed by the fire’s tongues in the next second.

“County Magistrate Ouyang, the account books!”

Qin Heng grabbed a bucket of well water and moved to douse the table, but Ouyang Rong snatched it away, pouring the first bucket over Old Cui’s head, the second as well. Fortunately, the strange liquid on him was minimal—the fire flared fast and died fast.

Even so, Old Cui suffered severe burns: his hair, beard, and eyebrows were mostly charred, resembling a freshly dug, mud-caked red carrot with its roots still attached.

The fire on the pile of account books was only extinguished after the seventh bucket of water, leaving only ash.

Qin Heng and the officers opened their mouths but said nothing.

“All of you, out.”

Ouyang Rong didn’t look at them or the smoldering remains on the table. He walked alone, dragged over a chair, and collapsed into it, staring at the old man curled in pain like a shrimp on the floor, fingers clenched tight around his sword hilt.

Only two remained in the room.

“Why?”

The young county magistrate asked.

“I… I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no—you’re not sorry to me.” He shook his head, lowering his gaze, speaking slowly and precisely: “Tell me why.”

“I… I thought about refusing.”

“But you didn’t.”

“When I fled the disaster back then, it was the Liu family’s porridge stall that saved my life.”

“That broken porridge stall save people?” Ouyang Rong laughed.

“That’s now. When Old Master Liu was still alive, it wasn’t like this—he wouldn’t have allowed these three brothers to do this… Back then, the Liu family’s porridge stall didn’t seize wealth, and it truly saved some people.”

“I thought you were a spare piece planted by the Liu family, long ago anticipating someone would come to audit the accounts.”

“I’m not a death-servant. I chose this job at the county office myself. Since Old Master Liu passed, I haven’t contacted the Liu family in years—I even thought they’d forgotten me. But… they came looking anyway.”

Old Cui gave a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Young Master.”

The young county magistrate sank deep into the wide chair, quietly murmured, “Mm.”

“I owe the Liu family this favor.”

“By burning yourself.”

“Burn the books, and I settle the debt with the Liu family. But I’ve betrayed you and the tens of thousands of refugees outside the city.”

“What kind of bullshit logic is that?”

“Even you think it’s nonsense…” Old Cui murmured, gazing upward. “I’ve balanced accounts my whole life—did I fail to balance this final one?”

“Does dying make it right?”

“My life is worthless…”

“You are indeed worthless.”

Ouyang Rong nodded. “You did a low thing, so you’re worthless. But you didn’t have to be. You chose to sink.”

Old Cui froze. Ouyang Rong’s voice was firm: “A true man is never born worthless. Worth or worthlessness lies only in whether he does noble or base deeds. What about you? Noble or base?”

“I…” Old Cui’s body trembled, unable to utter a word.

Ouyang Rong leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, coldly staring into the old man’s growing fear:

“Is justice less important to you than a bowl of porridge from over a decade ago?”

“I… I thought you’d win… Burning just one family, and the other twelve remain untouched—it won’t disrupt relief efforts…”

“The Liu family is the primary evil. If the Liu family isn’t toppled, seizing the other twelve is like driving wolves to feed tigers—only inviting them to conspire. And…” Ouyang Rong asked calmly, “Does whether I ultimately win have anything to do with whether you commit base acts?”

Old Cui opened his mouth, dumbfounded, speechless.

Ouyang Rong rose, gazing out the window at the distant mountains, and declared:

“A meal’s kindness must be repaid—I respect you as a man. But to forget great righteousness for a small favor is to shame the men of Wu and Yue.”

Old Cui’s face twisted in agony; he clutched his head and wept, voice hoarse with regret: “Young Master, I… I was wrong… I miscalculated… I’ve betrayed you…”

“No. The one you’ve betrayed most isn’t me. Go apologize to the refugees outside the city.”

A flicker of light returned to Old Cui’s eyes—complex: guilt, remorse, hope for life, pain for the future. “Fine. I’ll apologize. I’ll do more to atone. I’ll spend the rest of my life serving them as beast of burden…”

Ouyang Rong shook his head. “No need to go that far. Just part of it.”

“What part…”

Before the old man could finish, the young county magistrate moved swiftly, drew his sword, and slashed—severing a head. The headless corpse toppled backward onto the floor.

The young county magistrate stood still, watching the sword in his hand and “Old Cui.”

The blade’s cold gleam illuminated a face—charred, hairless, bloody.

It was a fine sword. The white blade bore no blood—only silver-like droplets slid off.

He could slay a dragon.

For the first time in his life, Ouyang Rong wiped the blood splashed on his face with his sleeve, stood still, sheathed his sword—but failed to insert it into the scabbard’s hole several times. He gave up, lifted the sword in one hand, the head in the other, and turned to walk slowly out the door.

In the courtyard, Xie Ling, Commandant Qin, Yan Liulang, and County Deputy Diao were all gathered. Everyone stood silent, eyes wide, watching a frail scholar of an official emerge, one hand holding a severed head.

Xie Ling’s fingers curled around two broken bronze beast masks, worried, stepped forward to speak—but Yan Liulang tugged his sleeve.

The young county magistrate’s blood-smeared face was unnervingly calm.

He casually tossed the head before them:

“Traitor.”

Silence filled the courtyard.

“Hang it on the city wall,” he added.

A complex mix of awe and dread surfaced in their eyes. As Ouyang Rong advanced without expression, the crowd before him parted instinctively.

Only the newly arrived County Deputy Diao, unaware of the situation, kept chattering as he stepped forward, face twisted in distress:

“My Lord, I told you not to investigate, not to investigate! What if you uncover something? People will die! We should settle matters peacefully. Governing such a large county, with so many gentry and powerful clans—it’s like slow simmering…”

Ouyang Rong suddenly drew his sword and slashed forward: “Simmer your mother’s head.”

“Ahh! Help! Help!”

County Deputy Diao’s soul nearly fled his body; he scrambled away like a rat. Ouyang Rong, face grim, chased him with sword in hand. Diao screamed for help, but no one dared intervene—the crowd stood frozen, some even stepping aside to clear the path as the two raced past.

Thus, under everyone’s eyes, the county magistrate and the county deputy enacted a life-or-death chase in the courtyard.

“My Lord, calm down! Calm down! Ah!”

Alas, County Deputy Diao was a career bureaucrat who always slept through morning meetings and stayed up all night—no match for Ouyang Rong, the runner-up in the school’s hundred-meter race. Before he’d run half a lap, he screamed as a kick from behind sent him sprawling face-first into the dirt, his official hat flying over the courtyard wall.

Ouyang Rong straddled Diao, one hand pinning his thin skull, the sword plunged hard beside his neck—its white blade almost entirely buried in the earth.

Diao’s neck hairs brushed the blade’s edge. He froze, eyes bulging, neck stretched like a duck about to be decapitated on a chopping block.

“My Lord, spare me! My Lord, spare me, waaah!”

“Whining, whining—always nagging in my ears? You beg for scraps and want me to beg with you?!”

“I didn’t! I only meant to help you, My Lord! Calm down! Please calm down!”

Ouyang Rong pried open Diao’s eyelids, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Diao’s terrified gaze. His right hand gripped the sword hilt beside the man’s neck. A slight forward tilt—and another fresh head would fall.

“Calm?” The young county magistrate tilted his head. “Tell me why the hell I should calm down. If you can’t explain, I’ll cut off your head first, then march to the Liu family’s gate and ransack them all!”

“…!!!” County Deputy Diao.